


Ask

by Adira_Tyree



Category: Original Work
Genre: Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Pain Management, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-02
Updated: 2014-10-02
Packaged: 2018-02-19 14:39:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2392040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adira_Tyree/pseuds/Adira_Tyree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Living with migraines is sometimes easier than living with people who don't understand them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ask

 

People ask me what it’s like.

 

Sometimes.

 

Usually they just give me this “understanding” look,

_Tell_ me about how it must be annoying

To have headaches so often.

They offer me a pill.

I don’t care if it’s acetaminophen or ibuprofen,

Because I can’t take either. They’ll make it worse.

And I told you that,

The last three times you made this offer _this month alone_

And you _still_ won’t remember.

I just smile, and tell you “no thanks,”

Because at least you’re kind enough to offer.

 

It’s something I can’t do much about.

I’ve been poked and prodded

By doctors and their machines since highschool

Because no one knows what causes it

And no one will fund the research

For something that is intangible,

For something they cannot see,

For something they cannot find on their screen,

While I vomit and cry with the lights off

Because the smell is already too strong,

And turning the lights on might make me pass out

From the pain.

It is… a tempting offer.

 

I try not to tell people what it’s like.

Because it’s not something I can’t really describe.

Your pain-scale 7 is another’s 5, another’s 9, my 2.

Because what if you stubbed your toe on that doorframe,

Every day,

Your toe will get used to the bruises,

Your bone, used to the jarring,

Your leg, used to the shooting pain up through your knee,

And you will learn to walk through it,

Because you have no choice,

Because no one saw you get hurt,

So it might as well have never even happened.

It doesn’t exist.

 

And you will learn to tell yourself that too.

_Try_ to forget it.

Sometimes you can. Sometimes you cannot.

 

It’s made up of little things,

This constant over-the-top experience of life.

It’s knowing how to spell it: hemiplegic, acetaminophen, ibuprofen, naproxen sodium.

It’s knowing the weather patterns in your hometown

By names of “miserable,” “excruciating,” and “tolerable.”

It’s the size of your coffee-budget and your frappuccino,

Because at least caffeine helps,

Even if it turns you into an unsleeping zombie.

It’s the fact that your go-to prescription of choice is “restricted access only,”

And has “TRAUMA” right in the name,

But you don’t even dare to take it,

Because it’s more addicting than _morphine_ ,

And the withdrawal can be worse than from _heroin_.

And what if addiction runs in your family?

 

It’s not bothering to click the button for within 10 miles,

25 miles, 50 miles, 100,

When searching for “a headache specialist in your area!”

When you laugh at any results that are close before you click them,

Because you know it’s something so far off and sad

That you don’t want to think about it.

 

5 miles: the neurologist that told you there was nothing there.

11 miles: a psychiatrist that’s rated a 1.7 out of 5 but you saw him anyway.

8 miles: the last place you remember being pain-free.

169 miles: the closest _actual_ headache specialist.

1750 miles: the only doctor that ever listened to a word you said.

Now, I’ve never been very good with math.

Numbers and procedures are something that have always confused me.

But that seems like a long way to go,

Just for someone to hear you out.

 

My hands tremble on these keys.

At least this way I can reach out.

I don’t have to think about what it will cost my family

When I try to find someone who will listen.

I don’t have to burden them with my pain again,

I don’t have to choose food on the table or a trip to a doctor,

I don’t have to take a pill that I know won’t work.

Because there is someone, right here, who is listening.

There is someone, right here, who won’t offer me that pill.

There is someone, right here,

Who might understand now:

When their friend,

Their family member,

Their classmate,

Their co-worker,

The stranger at the bus stop,

Smiles and says “thanks,”

Because at least you were kind enough not to offer,

Because, maybe, you just asked them

What it is they need,

Instead.


End file.
